Slights

by Kaaron Warren

  There's an answer to every one of those questions.

  I put on a pair of wellies which had sat by the back door since Dad died. We never cleared them away.

  I planned to dig up the yard; plant a sea of night blooming jasmine, surround myself again with that saviour scent. I had no idea what I was looking at, weed, vegetable, treasure. Some parts were green, some brown, and there were sprays of bright colour: purple, yellow, red.

  Somewhere out there was a shed which no one had been near in nine years.

  I headed in that direction. The whole area smelt composty and things rustled and slithered at my feet. I was amongst nature and it felt unnatural. I stamped fronds and flowers underfoot, bent to pick up interesting items.

  I found a sock lost long ago from the Hills Hoist near the back door and a plastic, long-hated doll.

  The shed had become a rusty mess. The door had never had a lock. Even though Dad was a cop, he wasn't bothered about security in our home. It was like he thought that his occupation was enough of a deterrent; that somehow thieves would KNOW who lived there and leave us alone.

  The grass had grown up through the hinges and between the door and its frame. I used my bare hands to tug away the weeds from the door and pull it free. Inside smelt of petrol and metal. In the bright sunlight I saw the lawn mower, and Dad's rusty old tools.

  I scythed away the grass first, then mowed it, not with Dad's old mower, which wouldn't start, but with one borrowed from the man next door, who watched me over the fence and waited in his front yard for it when I had finished.

  And so my weekend went. After my hands were scratched and raw, I finally thought to go and buy some gloves. I bought books on gardening, too; about how to turn the soil, that sort of thing, if your soil is good, how to grow your turf. I didn't intend to grow any food. Easier to buy it. I just wanted to see the lawn neat, green. I wanted to be able to sit on it. People wouldn't think I was a weirdo if my garden was neat. I wanted jasmine to scent the house.

  I read in one of the gardening books that manure was very good for soil, so I had a shitload delivered. I'd hardly made a dent in the backyard, but I wanted this stuff to spur me on. It sat there, slowly spreading over the nature strip, the footpath, and spilling onto the road. I quite liked it as a piece of modern sculpture, an ever-changing study symbolising the unknown world. Then I went out and spent an age in the hardware shop. There was even a cafe, so I stopped and had coffee and "a piece of our own spicy, healthy carrot cake". As I walked around the corner to my street, the smell hit me. It really did stink; I had been used to it, but the trip away had cleared my nostrils. No wonder the street people, Rat Traps, I call them, kept meeting in clusters outside their houses. I never did bring that manure in; every now and then I'd have another load dumped on top. When I got back from shopping one Saturday, someone had shovelled all the shit from my nature strip to my front door, a huge mound.

  I just used the back door.

  In the dirt I found a coin holder, a plastic bracelet, a cat collar and a chipped crystal, with the remains of a piece of string.

  The counsellor they made me see told me I needed goals. "Things to work towards, to avoid that sense of purposelessness."

  I hadn't had a sense of purposelessness before that.

  "I want to dig up my backyard and plant jasmine," I told her. "That's my goal."

  She had this habit of nodding her head but at the same time pressing her lips together. "That's a good physical goal," she said, "but how about we come up with something a little more spiritual."

  Honestly, the woman was an idiot. Though she did tell me to sort through Mum's things, and I found out a lot of stuff I had forgotten. Piles of papers I'd never been allowed to look at. Mum would have burnt them, if she'd had warning of her death.

  One paper had yellowed a little, making it harder to read. I realised what I had, though. Dad's last words, scribbled down by Dougie Page, his partner. I stared at the scribble for minutes, knowing it should mean something because it gave me a feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was the feeling I got when I thought about Dad and no other time; thinking about Mum didn't produce it.

  "Tell her to promise [pause] never to move

  away from the house. Tell her to make the

  kids promise. I love her. Tell Pete to look after

  his Mum and sister. Tell Stevie she'll make a

  great detective."

  I remembered the pride I felt, hearing those words.

  When I was six, Dad took us into the station for a visit. Peter got all the attention as Dad showed us around. They called him young man and asked him when he'd get his badge. He was allowed to hold the guns and look at some horrible photos which made him sick. They wouldn't have made me sick. I would have loved a look.

  The policemen gave me lollies and said how cute I was. Finally one asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.

  "A mother?" they guessed, "or a movie star?"

  "A detective," I said. They all laughed.

  "You'll have to be a cop first," one man said, thinking even that was impossible. They all laughed, especially Peter. He sat up on someone's desk, with someone's cop hat and someone's cop badge on.

  It didn't matter to me what they said. My Dad said, "Steve can be anything she sets her heart on. Because I say so." That was all I needed.

  Wanting to be a detective – that was because I wanted to be like Dad, not through any inherited instinct. I wasn't born wanting it. I would have been good, though. You need a criminal mind to be a good cop.

  Every time Peter rang up I was digging in the garden. He wanted me to stop; he said Dad would have wanted me to stop. He said I was obsessed and should have a break.

  "You need to get out of the house," he said, as if the house was a disease. He begged me to come stay for a week. The time was specified. There was no chance I was to stay for longer than that. I couldn't anyway; no one would collect my mail.

  And I didn't want to go. Here I felt in control, in command. I sprinkled some grass seeds on the manure out the front to see if they'd sprout. My garden was all I needed.

  I found so many things when digging in the backyard. The pile grew by the back door, then I rinsed each item in the laundry sink. I found an old, squashed bottle top, a broken piece of an LP record, a fabric poppy and a little metal Dogs of War lunch box, one of those airtight boxes which buckle when kids sit on them. Inside were the remnants of a sandwich and an ancient box of raisins. People would pay money for these things, if I could wipe the rot off. I remembered a boy at school who'd had a lunch box like this. Little Pauly, who liked me, wanted to be me. It was a simple kiss, but I didn't know what to call it. I sat on my Dad's lap and whispered in his ear. "Pauly touched me in a funny way."

  Dad squeezed me until I cried out. "Don't cry, baby. No one will ever hurt you."

  It was the school holidays and I thought nothing more of Pauly. A week into the holidays, though, his face began to appear on the TV between the cartoons and in the paper, which Dad didn't let us see, but we saw it everywhere anyway.

  "There's Pauly!" I said. I couldn't wait to get back to school to see my famous friend. My Dad had to work very hard for the next few days, because Pauly was missing. He had gone for a ride on his bike, all prepared with his Dogs of War lunch box and he was never seen again. I soon forgot Pauly and his kiss.

  I dug and I found a whistle, a small bell, a foam ball and a compass.

  My licence was taken from me. I had a difficult interview with my employer about keeping my job open.

  He said, "You may be popular with the customers, but we need clean drivers here. You can't run a courier company with dodgy drivers. Even if you work the phones till you get your licence back, it's on your record."

  "I'm not a dodgy driver." I was the most cheerful of all the drivers, a joke with every parcel delivered. I loved the job.

  It wasn't hard to be cheerful. People are desperate for a smile; they like you to be nice to them. Some of the regular clie
nts gave me gifts. Books, perfume, stuff they probably got for nothing. They never asked me out or tried anything, though they pushed their kidding as far as it would go.

  So I lost my job and my mode of transport in one. And my mum, of course. I lost her too. My car was towed to my place rather than the tip. I couldn't stand the thought of it being discarded.

  About six months after Mum's funeral, Laurie, the young cop who'd interviewed me in hospital, came a-knocking.

  "Nothing came up, I take it?" He was in casual clothes, I had seen him for a few hours half a year ago, yet he expected me to recognise him. Well, I've got an eye for faces.

  "Hello, Laurie. Not much," I said.

  "I wondered if you'd like to go see a movie or something," he said. "Just if you weren't doing anything."

  I saw, in a sudden flash, the two of us having a drink after the movie. Him saying shit about it, me not being able to think of a word. And what movie would we see, anyway? I knew he wouldn't like my kind of movie. And what would I say if he wanted me back at his place? I wouldn't know where the toilet was, how the fridge worked, how warm the heater made the place.

  "Why don't you come in and we'll talk about it?"

  He smiled.

  "Are you off duty then? Do you want a beer?" I said.

  "Sure."

  It turned out he had a flatmate, so we always went to my place. I had things there just in case, so I could say, "I've got some brandy at my place, why don't we go there?" Or it was chocolate cake, or a DVD, something I could entice him with. I could say I'd left my contraception at home, but he used condoms anyway and wouldn't understand my caution. Knowing him, he might say, "Don't worry, we'll just hold each other," and that would be irritating. It was the usual trouble, though. Why do things have to change? He started wanting more of me, friendship, confession, emotion, and I didn't want a best friend. I didn't know how to tell him, so I just said he was a dud root. I didn't think I'd ever need him as a cop so I didn't care. He took it well, anyway.

  "I thought we had something," he said.

  "Maybe we could have," I said, to give him something to dream about, "but I just feel repelled by the shape of your penis. Not even hypnosis could help me get over that."

  He kept in contact. Called me when he met women, said, "They don't think I'm funny looking."

  I did call him once, professionally. My neighbours, the Rat Traps, complained about the noise I was making. It was only music. So I threw a rock through their window. Only it was the wrong neighbours, so they complained too. The police arrived; I called Laurie.

  "I didn't know what to do," I said.

  "I'll be right there." And he was. He talked to the other cops and it was fine. I thanked him by smiling at him and telling him how much I missed him, how sometimes I wondered what could have been.

  He never asked me about the boys I'd babysat, and I didn't mention the steps Lee and I had taken. They didn't need to know about the sexual fumblings we played at. They shouldn't think he was in my power. He had been, though. Right from the first time, when I was sixteen. The father, Mr Walsh, always picked me up and drove me home. He was a talkative, ugly man with spiky blond hair far too young for him, who would ask me about school and not notice if I didn't answer. Gab gab gab, not even flattering me by trying to impress me. I was just a set of ears. If he'd read a good book I'd hear half of it on the way there, half on the way back. Even mystery books – he'd tell me the whole thing. I finally shut him up when he was reading And Then There Were None, the Agatha Christie one. "I'm only half-way through but by golly it's good. Can't believe I never read it as a youngster, maybe it was a little risqué. I don't know. Anyway…" Blah blah blah he said she said.

  When we reached their house I told him who did it. He almost cried. He left the motor running, sat in the car waiting for his wife to emerge. She never shut up, either, always talking back instructions to people who didn't listen. They were going to a party. "Just a duty thing, we'll be home in a couple of hours," but these two never were. I could imagine it: "We really must go, oh, is that new?" "Yes, isn't it marvellous? Such a bargain, too, and there's only twenty thousand of them in the world."

  Whatever it was would keep the women talking, so he'd get another drink and find another victim. They loved it. I'd seen them in action at my place, poor Mum trapped and almost tearful at the assault.

  Their son Tim was eight then and at the TV and he didn't look up the first time I showed. Lee was sitting on the couch, watching his brother watch TV.

  "Hi, Lee," I said. He looked at me. I smiled.

  He said, "You didn't make the joke."

  "What, hi lee contagious or something?"

  "Everyone makes the joke," he said. He smiled at me. He pulled a cigarette packet out of his pocket and began to toss it up and down, spinning it higher and higher.

  Tim changed the channel. It was close to adult viewing hours and I let him watch anything. He liked documentaries, and movies. We saw one about a Civil War and he wanted to know where the men were taking the woman.

  "How come she doesn't get to die?" he said.

  I said, "They'll probably rape her and then kill her."

  "Oh," he said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing. Who knew what he had seen? There are family events no one ever discusses. We certainly had enough in our family.

  I said, "Anything to eat?"

  "I'll have a look," Lee said. I followed him to the kitchen.

  "There's heaps if you know how to cook," he said. I realised how perfect his skin was, how red his cheeks. He looked so young, but he had a man's voice.

  "I don't cook," I said. I opened the fridge and stared in. It was a horrible fridge, full of veggies, milk, meat, cheese. I would never be old enough to think that all meant food.

  "Have they got any money?" I said. Tim was with us now, using an instinct I had to admire.

  Lee shrugged. "They hide it from me."

  Tim said. "There's grocery change in the linen press and Dad's change in his drawer. He's got a magazine there, too."

  I laughed. "Your future girlfriends," I said. Tim reddened.

  "I haven't looked," he said.

  "Of course you haven't." I didn't intend to tease him but I couldn't resist. "So do you like the boozies or the furry bits?" I said.

  Lee laughed like a pistol. "Ya wanna fuck one?" he said. There was more cruelty in his voice than in mine. I was just having fun. He began threading the needle, in and out, one forefinger through the circle of his thumb and other forefinger. He made an ugly, sucking noise.

  "Oh, yes, that's just what it's like," I said. I hoped he knew I meant it wasn't, that I knew he had never had sex and had no idea what it was like.

  He stopped and stared at me. He seemed to realise that I wasn't a babysitter, I was an older woman.

  "Wanna smoke?" he said. Tim sucked in his breath, shocked. "You're not allowed," he said.

  "Go collect the money and we'll get some pizza," I said. He went to disturb the sanctity of his parent's bedroom. Lee and I went outside. We sat on the swings.

  "You'll have to teach me how to do the drawback," I said. He gave me one of his strong cigarettes. I had not even had a puff before; this seemed like the perfect time to learn. He was trying to be cool but he was in awe; he wouldn't laugh at me.

  "You'll cough the first time," he said, a kindness which made me forgive him cruelties in the future.

  "Close your lips around it all the way."

  "Like a dick?" I said. He didn't know.

  "Now just kinda breathe in, but only through your mouth. You haveta pretend it's air."

  Tim came and watched us smoke. He sat crosslegged on the grass, fascinated at this glimpse of the adult world. I took to smoking as easily as I did driving. We got pizza and more cigarettes, we watched a true murder mystery on TV.

  I babysat those boys for a good two years.

  It all changed after Mum died. The Walshes forbade me visiting once their precious boys had been interviewed by
the police. I had placed their children in the path of the law, and that was not suitable. Lee called me; he loved it. He was big time; he'd been questioned by the cops.

  "Ya shoulda heard me. I raved about you and your Mum. I kept hoping I was saying the right things. I mean, you never even mentioned your Mum. I told them you always raved about her, said how much you loved her. I told them all these little stories I said you used to tell us; about outings, little adventures or something. And Tim told them you showed him hundreds of pictures of her. That was good wasn't it?"